Out of His League
by blueoceandragon
Summary: A matchmaker informs Draco that Hermione Granger is "out of his league." Not that he's interested in her, but this is utter hogwash, Draco is sure of it!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I am not JK Rowling and claim no ownership of her work. **

"What do you mean she's 'out of my league'?" Draco asked in an icy voice he'd perfected over his several years in the Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation. Oddly enough, ensuring Magical Cooperation involved a lot more coercion than the name suggested.

The plump woman before him fidgeted with the edge of the parchment before her and kept flicking her eyes towards Narcissa Malfoy, as if _his mother _were going to bolster her claim that some witch was out of _Draco Malfoy's_ league. The woman, a middling talented Seer, ran a matchmaking business for those who could afford her services, which were a proprietary combination of personality matching and Divination. Narcissa had insisted on coming since Draco was, as she put it, clinging to the naive notion of marrying for love. If he were to do something so foolish, he at least had better find the _best_ person with whom to fall in love.

The matchmaker had now brought the sheaves of parchment in front of her face and mumbled something about "extenuating circumstances," "celebrity," and "refund."

"I may not be an international Quidditch star, but I'm not a nobody," Draco insisted. A slight whine had crept into his otherwise icy tone. "The Malfoy name is well-known, and not just for its malfeasance anymore. I'm the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation…" He trailed off and looked at his mother. He hadn't wanted to come to this appointment, and now he was being told that the best witch for him, his best potential spouse was 'out of his league.' The damning words kept ringing in his ears.

He thought he caught a mumbled "war heroine" from behind the parchments, which were now being meaninglessly shuffled on the desk as the woman avoided his eyes. Draco sighed. A war heroine would indeed explain the "extenuating circumstances." His abhorrent behaviour at Hogwarts and during the war would be a huge barrier to most who had fought for the Light. Heck, he still bought Potter drinks whenever he saw him at the Cauldron and reined in his snarky comments during meetings with the Auror Department in deference to his former nemesis' sacrifices; it did little to balm his guilt. But it had been several years since he'd been made to feel like a piece of scum for his role in the war when he was a _child_ for Merlin's sake!

Instead of voicing any of this, Draco retorted, "I can't think of any 'war heroines' as you put it that meet my criteria of poised, confident, witty, crafty, and beautiful." He scoffed.

The matchmaker seemed to re-inflate at those words, finally meeting his eyes. Apparently her loyalty to this mystery witch was greater than her fear of the Malfoy temper. "Miss Hermione Granger is indeed all of those things," she sniffed. "In addition, she's a beloved national icon. As I said, unfortunately, out of your league, despite your otherwise strong compatibility-"

Draco interrupted, "Hermione Granger, as in Muggle-born, brains-behind-the-Boy-who-Lived, rising like a rocket through the Ministry ranks, bushy hair out-to-here, Hermione Granger?"

Draco was flabbergasted. She thought Hermione was a good match for him? And that she was out of his league? His jaw felt slack and his mouth might have even hung open a hair. The matchmaker nodded.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially to such an ancient, proud family as the Malfoys, but I cannot arrange a meeting for you with her. I could suggest some witches who are less well matched-Miss Astoria Greengrass, for example… otherwise, I am happy to provide a refund." Her mouth pursed a little on 'refund,' which made Draco rather think that 'happy' was not an apt description of her feelings about the situation.

Draco rose gracefully from his chair, proffering a hand to help his mother up. "No, thank you. We appreciate your time and the magic expended in this endeavor and would not wish to leave you with no recompense for your efforts." He turned to his mother before adding, "I shall simply have to find a date on my own, I suppose or condemn my mother to a life without grandchildren."

And with that, the two blond aristocrats swept out of the office, leaving a flustered but relieved matchmaker behind.

*** OUHL *** OUHL ***

Later that evening, Draco nursed a large chocolate milkshake into which he'd added the better portion of a bottle of hot fudge. If he was going to drink and feel sorry for himself, his beverage was going to involve chocolate.

He had spent several years atoning for his sins, rebuilding the Malfoy name, and finally had started feeling worthwhile again. He agreed that on metrics like "lack of susceptibility to hateful rhetoric" and "empathy towards the downtrodden" that Granger outclassed him, sure. He _respected_ her goodness, _admired_, even, her drive and her success. But 'out of his league?' The very phrase implied that he wanted her, which he didn't. She didn't even match any of the criteria he'd mentioned he sought in a future Mrs. Malfoy. Beautiful? No, plain, with bushy hair. Poised? Poised over some helpless books. Or maybe house elves. Witty? Only if you found the dry recitation of facts humorous. And crafty? He doubted she had ever broken a rule, much less been wily enough to evade detection.

Ugh. He noisily slurped the rest of his milkshake before calling for a refill from his-newly liberated and paid, courtesy of Miss Swotty Bushy-hair Crusader herself's new legislation-house elves. He continued ruminating over her faults as he sipped himself into a chocolatey oblivion.

*** OUHL *** OUHL ***

The next day, Draco awoke feeling much more himself and much less morose. Well himself plus a massive headache. He decided against a Hangover Potion, preferring the punishment as a reminder not to cope with things he didn't like with copious amounts of sugary alcohol. He didn't care if some washed up Seer thought Hermione was out of his league, because he wasn't at all interested in her, so, therefore, her opinion did not matter. An hour later (luscious Malfoy locks don't wash and dry themselves into perfection, you know) he Flooed to his office in the Ministry, determined to put the matchmaking fiasco behind him, never to be thought of again.

His resolve lasted until 11:17am, after not one but three harrowing meetings with his counterparts at the German, Romanian, and Algerian Ministries and a testy joint meeting with the Nigerian, Georgian, Estonian, and Russian consortium of trading partners. The careful dodging of questions, dancing around answers, was always an intellectual thrill, but this morning his pounding head had made the exercise excruciating. The thought of his headache and the problems it had caused naturally led him to think of Hermione, at which point his resolve disappeared like a Demiguise approached by a clumsy hunter. And so, at 11:23am (after checking his hair, teeth, and robes in a hastily conjured mirror) he casually sauntered over the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a hastily constructed reason for visiting.

He entered her department, a surprisingly light, airy space with numerous charmed windows that splashed sunlight throughout the open floor. He always expected the MLE folks to work in as much darkness as their quarry. Maybe the light helped them remember what they were fighting for. He had planned to march into her office, ask her about developing a confidentiality system so that he could easily reference which cases, prisoners, missions, etc. he was allowed to discuss with which governments (he patted himself on the back for coming up with such a good excuse to come here; it was actually a good idea he was surprised he hadn't thought of before), and then leave for lunch.

Instead, he found himself skulking in a corner, watching as she ran a seminar on the new procedures the Aurors were to use when apprehending suspects. Draco learned that there were several new spells they were to use to neutralize threats or prevent escape, by, for example, preventing them from transforming into Animagus form. There were also new procedures in which wizards were informed of their rights (or lack thereof) as they were taken into custody.

He only half-heartedly listened. Mostly he focused on Granger. She stood _poised_, he thought ruefully, delivering her speech in clear, crisp, confident tones. Her hair was still as bushy as he remembered it, but it seemed to provide no impediment to her vivacious performance. _Fine_, he mused, she's decently poised. Point 1 to the crackpot matchmaker.

A few moments later, Granger had paired up the attendants to practice the new spells and was suddenly striding over the where Malfoy had couched himself in a back corner. He quickly straightened and tried to act as if he had been waiting impatiently for her to deign to notice him.

"Malfoy," she greeted. She wore a cool, professional mask and looked much less excited to be talking to him than she had been in talking about the newest spells and reforms for the Auror's intake procedure. He hoped his own demeanor conveyed that the feeling was mutual.

"Granger," he smirked.

"I assume there is a reason you are lurking a corner watching an Auror training seminar?"

"Of course there is. I was bored and wanted to see you." Draco did enjoy telling the truth in the guise of sarcasm. He rolled his eyes and added, "I had an idea for a collaboration between our departments, and had hoped to run it by you before I pitched anything formally."

Granger had rolled her eyes at his first statement, but seemed at least mildly intrigued by his second.

"Fine. My day is booked, we can chat over lunch." She didn't wait for his response, merely brushed past him with a swirl of her navy robes.

*** OUHL *** OUHL ***

"What's your idea?" They had both grabbed boxes from one of the food-trucks that appeared in the Ministry lobby during lunch time; each truck came from a different country (arriving and leaving via international Portkey each day) as part of an effort at inter-country harmony and understanding and unity. It was an effort Draco was immensely proud of. Mostly because he was able to eat delicious food every day instead of the slop the Ministry had previously had the gall to call 'lunch.' The feather in his cap from such a 'gesture of cooperation' among nations didn't hurt his pride in the endeavor. Hermione and Draco settled at one of the tables in an adjoining courtyard as she awaited his response.

"Eager, aren't we? Can't even wait until we've eaten to discover my brilliance?" he quipped.

Hermione snorted, "Sure thing, Malfoy." She twirled her chopsticks in silent command for him to continue.

He sighed. "Fine. I thought it would be helpful to have some sort of coded system for sensitive information from MLE so that my department knows easily which pieces of information can be shared with whom internationally. We do get asked frequently about specific cases, extraditions, etc., and it's hit-or-miss whether we know what we're allowed to say." He was picking up steam; he was frankly shocked that heads hadn't rolled over a mistake on this front by now. Probably because no one on MLE's side knew either, so they couldn't check if his department had done anything wrong.

Hermione nodded, looking slightly aghast. "That does sound like a major problem, and I'm frankly a little surprise that we haven't had a major issue with this already." Draco almost snorted at how similar her assessment was to his own. But he did not; Malfoys do not do uncouth things like snort.

"A classification system for information would be a convenient solution. Perhaps we could even magically seal certain records so they can only be shown to the appropriate foreign embassies so as to make it fool-proof." Hermione shot him a quick glance. "No offense to your department," she amended graciously.

They spent another twenty minutes or so hashing out some details and brainstorming what the system should look like. Hermione's gestures became more animated, and Draco swore her hair puffed up slightly, as she become more enthused about the idea. Draco found himself equally enthralled in trying to one-up her with ideas. Finally, their lunches finished and their conversation on the classification system wrapping up, Hermione asked casually, "So, your department needs the _assistance_ of my department on this task. You are asking for our _aid_?" She looked at him intently and with bated breath.

He rolled her eyes at her awkward summary and weird emphasis on departmental superiority. "Sure, Granger. We are asking for MLE _aid_."

A huge smile lit up her face. "Great! In that case, I'll draft up the appropriate requisition forms for MLE's being contracted out to another department. Always a pleasure to take money from another department." She smirked and stalked away before Draco realized she had neatly tricked him into agreeing to have his department pay for this joint endeavor by having him frame the project as a request for aid and not as a joint endeavor that would benefit both. He could fight it, of course, but she was counting on his pride at not wanting to recant his words.

As he headed towards the lift to go back to his office, he grudgingly acknowledged that she might indeed be crafty too. Drat. He strode back to his office to massage his budget to include this new expenditure.

*** OUHL *** OUHL ***

Draco did successfully twist and tease his budget until it coughed up the necessary Galleons to send to Granger's department. She had made the correct gamble that his pride wouldn't let him alter his phrasing to try to get her department to pay for half the endeavor.

He met with her the following Monday to finalize the exact system they envisioned (Draco loved this part of being in senior leadership; he had all the fun of coming up with ideas, with none of the drudgery of implementing them). Hermione enchanted a wall with a shiny gloss to turn it into a "whiteboard" (which confused Draco, since the wall was a pale yellow) and produced several "markers" emblazoned with the Weasels' joke shop's emblem on the side that she enchanted to transcribe their words.

About two hours into the work session, at approximately 12:30pm, Draco got a bit peckish, but was gruffly told he should wait fifteen minutes so they could avoid the lunch crowd. He may, or may not have mumbled, "evil witch" under his breath at her denial of life-saving sustenance. Or rather, he could have had plausible deniability if the blue marker hadn't gleefully written those words under the heading "highly classified cases," which had been otherwise what they were working on. Draco was unsure why the spell had betrayed him so cruelly; it had dutifully ignored other tangential conversations, like the one about lunch or lack thereof-but his transgression earned him a sharp glare from Hermione. He huffed a sigh of relief when she took no further retaliation, and even said that they could head to lunch now if he was so desperate as to resort to ad hominem attacks.

Lunch was obtained and eaten, and the plan for a new classification system was designed and written into instructions simple enough that Granger's underlings could understand and implement them. Draco felt fairly good about the whole endeavor; he could sense a commendation for Innovation in the Ministry coming their way for this project, and the classification system would truly ease the work for his department.

Or rather, Draco felt fairly good about the whole endeavor until he tried to sign his name to some standard forms once he'd reached his own office again. Instead of his normal signature, whenever he tried to scrawl his name "His Most Stuffy, Whinging Prat, Draco Malfeed-me" appeared. He grabbed another quill and tried again to the same result. He tried writing his name in block letters. He even went down the hall to grab one of the Muggle "pens" one of his underlings used; it only produced a much scrawnier version of the same text.

He growled low in his throat just as an owl swooped in with a stack of paperwork. On top of the stack was a pink note that read:

_The Minister sent me some forms related to our project. I told him you would be happy to sign off on them._

_-Evil Witch_

Round 1 to Granger then.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks for reading thus far! This story will be four chapters total, which I'll update once a week. **

**Motto1995: Glad you like it; I hope Draco and Hermione's antics this chapter are equally amusing! I took title inspiration from your review :)**

**Jess84w: Thanks! Hope you like this second installment.**

It took Draco three hours to figure out how to remove the handwriting jinx she'd placed on him. She'd done it quite cleverly, placing the jinx not on his quill (as determined by its persistence when using other writing implements) or his person (as determined by its persistence after a shower with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Extra Strength Hex and Jinx Removal Soap and Shampoo) but rather on his watch. Once he figured out where it was (at hour two and half) it had taken him a good half hour to unstick it. And then another hour to sign all the paperwork that had accumulated during his working time with Granger and then the time he'd wasted trying to rid himself of her hex.

After he'd penned his signature to the last paper, he penned a quick note to his newfound nemesis.

_Evil Witch, _

_Nice handwriting hex. Only took me three hours to figure out where you'd hidden it and how to get rid of it. _

_-DM_

_P.S. If you are reading this, it is too late. You'll see what I mean when you look in a mirror._

He only hoped she touched the parchment before she noticed the hair color charm he'd placed on it.

*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***

Draco was rewarded the next morning when a he saw a very frizzy poof of turquoise hair bobbing down the corridor. He snickered a bit; he'd mixed the standard color charm with a slight variant of a Permanent Sticking Charm, so she'd have to wait three days before it could be removed. He guessed the extra frizz was from her attempts to get the color out to no avail. Any other witch might have worn a wig or placed a glamor to hide it, but Granger wore it like a battle wound. He placed extra wards around his office before shutting the door to start on the day's work and confidently re-adjusted the tally. Round 2 to Malfoy.

Sadly, or fortunately, he wasn't sure entirely which, Hermione did not seek him out or surreptitiously hex him (as far as he could tell). After three days, she was back to her own brown, bushy hair, and he quickly forgot about the whole incident, as his own work piled up again. Meetings with the Peruvian envoy, negotiations with the Zambians… an intercepted shipment of Acromantulas a number of countries tried to pin on each other… life was back to normal. Every once in awhile he thought about the potty matchmaker and her words about Hermione, but he was well on his way to forgetting about that too. He even resolved to ask a pretty dark-haired Unspeakable out for coffee next time he ran into her in the halls.

*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***

Several weeks later, Draco had indeed asked and taken the pretty Unspeakable out for coffee. Ophelia, as she turned out to be named, was bright and easy to talk to. She read and travelled widely and was, like Draco, fluent in French, which meant they could discuss whatever delightful, wicked topics they wanted without (much) fear of eavesdropping. After their delightful coffee date, he'd asked her first to one dinner, and then to several more after that. He asked her to be his date for the annual Ministry Charity Ball and was looking forward to the event for the first time in several years. Once, as she snuggled into his arm on his couch, he thought about how wrong the matchmaker had been; this witch was ten times better than Astoria Greengrass, and she hadn't even made the list! He huffed an internal sigh of relief at his proof that the so-called professional had been completely and utterly wrong.

*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***

In retrospect, Draco should have realized that Granger did not let anyone get the last laugh. He supposed he should have paid more attention to the rumors that she'd been responsible for that Edgecomb girl's face. Or those canaries that had chased Weasel around the castle for an hour. But he hadn't thought any of those things and had forgotten about her turquoise hair, thinking perhaps that her Gryffindor sense of honor had deemed them even.

Hermione, however, had not forgotten, and she did not consider them even. But she was patient, a skill she'd learned well over the last six years at the Ministry. She had lulled Draco into a false sense of security, and she had awaited the suitable time for her revenge.

The night of the annual Ministry Charity Ball dawned. Draco wore his bespoke dress robes with silver trim that matched Ophelia's glittering, floor-length dress. She looked like a modern day princess, and Draco smirked when they turned heads and set photographers' bulbs blazing.

He was only slightly peeved when the Golden Trio waltzed in and stole all said attention (although he quickly quashed that feeling; he reminded himself that they deserved that attention and he shouldn't begrudge them the limelight, or at least he could try not to). The trio was there with their dates-Weaslette, Looney, and… Wait, was that Zabini? Draco almost jumped when he saw the tall man lean down and whisper something in Granger's ear. Definitely Zabini. Granger wasn't typically his type, but Draco grudgingly acknowledged that she looked lovely and her smile and joyful bearing made her a tiny bit entrancing. She giggled and smiled at Zabini before the whole group descended en masse as if they were the saviors of the planet. Well, most of them were, he supposed.

Draco and Ophelia were seated several tables over from the noisy Golden Gaggle, as Draco had renamed them to include their beaus. Their table was filled with laughter and what looked like a drinking game (that Ron seemed to have started, although it could have been the one-eared redhead who'd joined them later too). Draco's table, in contrast, was filled with very polite conversation among the scions of important families, including the Parkinsons, Notts, and Greengrasses. Well, pureblood definition of polite conversation, which meant that it sounded polite and could be defended as such before the Wizengamot, but was often cutting and laced with subtext. Draco faintly wished his own parents, or at least his mother were there. However, she refused to be seen in public without Lucius, who still languished in Azkaban. He figured she considered it a form of protest; society was deprived of her presence as long as it had the gall to keep her husband locked up. That, or she secretly hated the posturing and backstabbing that occurred amongst this crowd and had clung to the first excuse to avoid them. Knowing his mother, either was equally likely. She was an enigmatic woman who would likely take her reasoning with her to the grave.

The salad course passed without anything more contentious than the new tax on trust funds (really, who _did_ the Ministry think they were, depriving poor children of their justly deserved inheritances!), but by the time the entrees popped onto the table, Mr. Greengrass had imbibed two glasses of wine, which was apparently just enough for him to "forget" to reign in his nasty, manipulative streak.

"Draco, my boy," the old man rumbled. "When are you going to start looking to settle down?"

Draco huffed a fake laugh at the portly man's comment; the Greengrasses had been angling for a match between Astoria and Draco for the last two years, so Draco didn't see this conversation going anywhere productive.

Before he had a chance to steer the conversation in another direction, the man continued, "You should at _least_ start courting someone. Sowing wild oats is fine, now, but you're already several years older than your parents were when they married."

Draco stiffened. He fully understood the implications of the man's statements; Ophelia was not "someone," she was merely part of the "sowing wild oats." He was confident that Ophelia also fully understood what the odious man was saying. The downsides of dating intelligent women, he mused with a sort of detached, morbid horror.

"You are too comical, Mr. Greengrass," Draco responded cooly, making sure his tone lacked any hint of mirth. "I am already courting Miss Ophelia Graham." He held Ophelia's hand up and kissed it lightly, never letting his eyes leave Mr. Greengrass. Mr. Greengrass bellowed with laughter, while Astoria and her mother nervously tittered along.

"I said 'courting,' not 'tupping,' dear boy! Can't court a woman who you can't even introduce to the family-" Mr. Greengrass' diatribe was cut short by a Langlock jinx from Draco, which hit at the same time as an Aguamenti (from Ophelia, stealthily cast under the table) doused his lap in water. The man's eyes bulged as he silently recused himself from the table, followed by his wife. Silence reigned over their party, a sharp contrast to the laughter and shouts that emanated from the Golden table.

Draco was mortified. He should have put in a request for different table-mates; he hadn't thought about how his usual company might react to his half-blood girlfriend. He should have Langlocked Mr. Greengrass the instant he started speaking. He should have hexed every other person at the table for not contradicting anything Mr. Greengrass had said. He analysed each moment and found many in which he could have forestalled or mitigated that disaster. Nothing further was said once the elder Greengrasses rejoined the table.

The moment the band started playing, Draco pulled Ophelia up. She sketched a half-hearted smile as he led her to the dance floor that was rapidly filling with happily full witches and wizards. He led Ophelia into a slow waltz and felt her relax in his arms. Maybe he could redeem this evening after all.

Several songs later, Shacklebolt took the stage along with band. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for our inaugural dance competition!" He waited for the applause to die down. "The head of each of our Ministry's departments will hit the dance floor and bust their best moves."

Widespread snickering flashed like wildfire through the crowd at the Minister's attempt to use popular Muggle slang. Draco sighed; he'd forgotten all about this silly "tradition" the Minister was trying to institute the minute the memo had gone into his trash bin. He should have warned Ophelia about this. He shot her an apologetic smile and mouthed "I didn't know!" She nodded, less warmly than before. Or maybe it was his imagination.

"At each table there are jars for each Department, color coded to the robes of the team, in case you forget." With a swish of his wand, a set of colored jars popped into existence at each table; with another flick, the robes of each Department Head and his or her date changed to match the appropriate jar. Draco scowled. He and Ophelia were now clad in bright red. Granger and Zabini looked smug in royal eggplant robes, while Potter and Luna wore deep green robes that were probably chosen because they complimented his eyes. Blatant favoritism.

Shacklebolt continued. "Place Galleons and Sickles into any jar as votes _for_ a particular couple and Knuts _against_ that couple. The winner will be chosen based on the value of the Galleons and Sickles minus the value of the Knuts in their respective jars. All donations will benefit St. Mungo's Hospital." A smattering of applause greeted his words as the brightly garbed Department Heads and their dates took the floor. Potter walked up to Draco and shook his hand, murmuring "good luck, mate" before joining Looney. Draco followed Potter with his gaze, a bit confused by the interaction; Draco didn't care if he won-he was only participating because it was mandatory. And, if he _did_ care, he wouldn't need luck from Potter; he'd been dancing since he was six!

The band started playing a lively swing number. Dean Thomas, Head of Magical Games and Sports, was spinning his partner, Seamus Finnegan, on his finger to whoops and cheers from much of the audience; the cacophony seemed to be accompanied by the clinking of Galleons into the orange jar that corresponded to the energetic couple. Draco had just swung Ophelia into a deep dip when his cheeks started to itch madly. He ignored it and continued to lead his partner in a lively swing. He hoped he wasn't having some sort of allergic reaction to the food.

The music transitioned into an upbeat pop number and the dancers quickly followed suit. Granger and Zabini were bopping around like demented bobble heads, while Potter and Weaslette were making strange hand and arm motions that probably came from some silly Muggle dance. Draco spun Ophelia around, trying to decide how best to put his more ballroom dancing skills to use. Suddenly, he felt the skin on his arms and legs tighten in a vaguely familiar way, while his bones felt like they were tingling. He bopped up and down, wracking his brain for when he had last felt this and trying to ignore the strange sensations until the music transitioned to a slow-song.

Draco pulled Ophelia close to him and they swayed gently. Most couples were doing the same, although Potter and Weaslette were doing some sort of weird interpretive dance that they seemed to find immensely entertaining (if the Galleons being dropped into the forest green jar were any indication, the crowd agreed). The last strums were fading when suddenly Draco felt himself pop into a different form, and he recalled suddenly, when he'd felt that strange pull on his skin and tingling sensation in his bones. He glanced at himself with his much smaller head to confirm. Yup, he was a ferret.

*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***

The night only got worse from there. The Department of International Magical Cooperation ended up winning the dance competition due to his little transformation, and Shacklebolt had considerately shrunk the medal so it could be placed around his tiny neck. Ophelia graciously held him while this occurred. The Golden Gaggle was laughing so hard that at least Granger, Weasley, and Zabini-the traitor-were crying. Potter had winked at him, which reminded Draco of the odd handshake Potter had given him at the outset. He must have transferred Granger's jinx when he was close to him. Sneaky bastard.

After the awards ceremony, a still giggling Hermione, eyes puffy from her laughter induced tears, had lazily waved her wand and changed him back. Adding insult to ignominious incantation, she had leaned and whispered "Granger 2, Malfoy 1" before sweeping away with a sniggering Zabini.

But Draco's misfortune wasn't over yet. When he and Ophelia Apparated back to his flat, she had tearily informed him that she wanted to take "a break." She really liked him, she assured him, but didn't think she was up for the drama of his pureblood community. He had tried to convince her otherwise, but apparently she rather agreed with Draco's internal assessment at the table that he could have done more to protect her from the vitriol of his caste. She informed him that she wasn't really looking for a serious commitment right now, and dealing with pureblood dramatics put the relationship into an effort category she wasn't ready for.

She assured him she'd had a fun time otherwise and that he made a cute ferret. Great.

She Apparated away with a resounding pop, and Draco was left alone with his gloomy thoughts.

Granger 3, Malfoy 1. He wasn't sure he wanted to play anymore at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Welcome to chapter 3! I love this story and hope you are enjoying! Next chapter is the last one :/**

**Khloe, pgoodrichboggs: Thank you! Glad you found this funny!**

**Motto 1995: Yay! Draco is fun to write (and fun to torture!)**

**A fan, laureenkatebautista: Thanks!**

**Sixsixsix: Thank you! I'm glad you are enjoying it!**

**MarySueDraco: Agreed! I very much wanted to turn some tropes on their head; Hermione's awesome! I fixed the OOHL and replaced them with horizontal lines; I meant to do that every time and evidently got lazy...**

If Malfoys moped-which, they didn't-Draco would have been moping all Saturday. His house elves kept him supplied with a liberal supply of milkshakes, and instead of catching up on paperwork-his usual Saturday occupation-he read his favorite novels instead. But he wasn't moping. Brooding. Malfoys brood, not mope.

By Sunday morning, Draco felt marginally less awful. Ophelia had been great-intelligent, fun to talk to, beautiful-and he was definitely sad she was gone (both of them knew that "a break" was a euphemistic term for the death of their short-lived relationship), but, well she had run at the first sign of trouble, so maybe she hadn't been the greatest fit for him. He didn't want to mentally malign her (mostly) but while he was on the topic, he supposed their chemistry hadn't been the most explosive and all-consuming. And clearly their communication hadn't been stellar since he hadn't even been aware she wasn't interested in a serious relationship! Although, he ruefully considered, that was probably his fault for assuming that all witches were interested in serious relationships with well-off, handsome aristocrats. Lesson learned. Regardless of the reason, today he felt a little less crushed by her absence than he had the day before.

Bolstered by his analysis of his clearly doomed past relationship, he grabbed his new Nimbus and went for a bracing flight. The wind rushing past, the comfortable strain on his arm and core muscles, the exhilarating, stomach dropping dives and swoops all of it made him feel alive again. Brooding time was over, he decided.

Unfortunately for his newfound resolve, he was met by one Blaise Zabini as he strode back into his home, sweaty and wanting nothing more than a shower (and lunch). Zabini looked a bit uncomfortable, almost contrite. "Mate," he greeted Draco. His tone sounded rather like he thought he was headed to the guillotine. His former housemate ran his hand through his hair as he stood. "I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing, and apologize, you know." Draco shot him a confused look. Zabini sighed.

"I helped Granger with the ferret prank. She came to me, because we're friends, you know? And she explained the situation, the turquoise hair, and asked what sort of thing would get your lacy knickers in a twist. My words, not hers, to be fair. The knickers bit at least." Draco recalled that Zabini tended to ramble a bit when he was nervous. "Anyways, I mentioned how riled you'd gotten by that whole ferret affair and she, clearly, loved the idea. She mentioned she wanted to do it somewhere it would make a splash, since her hair _was_ that appalling color for three whole days. When she told me it would be at the ball, I asked her if she'd attend with me so I could get the metaphorical front-row seats." Blaise sighed again. "Anyhow, it was meant to be all in good fun. I didn't know it would cause your girlfriend to leave you. You know I wouldn't do that to you, not really." Beseeching, another expression, along with the contrition he'd seen earlier that Draco had previously never seen on the man's face.

"Wait," Draco cut in, "how did you know Ophelia and I broke up?" They'd been at _his_ place, not at the ball… ugh, if that blasted Skeeter woman had broken into his home...

"Erm." Zabini looked uncomfortable again. "I take it you haven't seen the papers."

He handed Draco this morning's edition, folded back to the third page. "I'd guess the Prophet was camped outside her door when she got back, since there's a picture of her slamming what I can only assume to be her front door in their faces and a quote saying you two had split, so no she didn't want to comment on the ferret fiasco." The sweat on Draco's arms was drying, leaving his skin with that sticky, shrinking feeling he hated. He glanced at the page three headline. "Fallout from Ferret Foxtrot!" it gleefully proclaimed over a picture of Draco's transformation into a ferret, next to the aforementioned photo of Ophelia slamming a door. A small part of him wanted to capitalize on Zabini's misplaced guilt, but a much larger part of him just wanted a shower. And maybe another milkshake.

"It's fine. She didn't break up with me over the ferret incident. She broke up with me because our table was full of the last bastion of pureblood bigotry and dearest daddy Greengrass was trying to set me up with Astoria and insinuated, well stated really, that Ophelia was nothing more than a meaningless shag. Apparently, she wasn't looking for anything super serious and dealing with a pureblood 'drama,' I think she called it, put our relationship above her pay-grade."

"Rough luck, mate. You did defend her right? Told Mr. Greengrass off?"

"Of course I did!" Draco fumed. He remained silent for a while, before deciding to share his thoughts on the matter. "Honestly, I think that she hasn't been exposed much, personally, to the pureblood bigotry and just wasn't invested enough in the relationship to put up with it." Draco paused. "I can't really blame her." Feeling a bit more raw than he would have liked after that last statement, Draco nodded to Zabini and stalked towards his much deserved shower.

* * *

When Draco went into his office the next day, his thoughts still circled-like hungry vultures-his words from the previous day. "_I can't really blame her." _Or really, what those words had represented. In that moment, he had really empathized with how awful, how embarrassed Ophelia must have felt hearing those words. He had already sent her a letter, expressing how sorry he was for exposing her to that situation and how he hoped they might remain friends, along with a subscription to the Muggle _Science_ journal he knew she loved to read. But still he couldn't escape that _feeling_, that _understanding_ of how degrading, how cutting those words could be. He had spent a long time-and a number of Galleons on therapy sessions-considering, regretting, and atoning for his actions in the war. It had taken years, but he really felt he had matured beyond the boy who had blindly followed and had so callously put others lives at risk. He had worked hard to put the pureblood ideology behind him, to learn the value that Muggle-borns and Muggles added to the world.

But he had never experienced that visceral feeling of how terribly those words, those words that he had thrown so spitefully at his classmates, could cut and wound. Not today-today, he was too emotionally worn out and woefully behind on paperwork after his weekend skiving-but soon, he would apologize to Granger for those hateful words he had spewed.

He was dragged out of his paperwork reverie an hour later by a rap at the door. "Come in," he called without looking up. He didn't have any meetings, so he expected his visitor was his secretary, James. He heard the door creak open, and an unexpectedly high-pitched voice -relative to James' low baritone-that asked, "Do you have a minute?"

Draco looked up to see a fidgeting Granger standing inside his office. He sighed, nodded, and motioned for her to sit. Instead, she shut the door behind her and remained standing.

"Malfoy, I just wanted to apologize. My behavior was completely out of line. I know I took this whole prank affair too far…"

Draco sighed again, suspicious he knew where this was going.

"I really didn't mean to cause you relationship problems! I thought the ferret transformation would be in good fun, and the charity dance was too good an opportunity to miss-"

"Why does everyone think she dumped me because I was a ferret?" Draco exclaimed, his suspicions validated.

Hermione looked perplexed, but rushed to explain, "The papers said you'd broken up, and I don't put too much stock in the Prophet, although their journalistic integrity has improved greatly after the war, but I notice you two didn't walk in together this morning..." She trailed off. "Anyways, I just wanted to apologize."

"The ferret thing isn't what caused the break-up. We were seated with the Greengrasses at the dinner, and Mr. Greengrass was… less than subtle in his expression of his belief that I should be dating his daughter, and not a half-blood." He didn't want to divulge that Ophelia hadn't been looking for anything serious and clearly hadn't thought him worth the hassle of being exposed to bigoted vitriol. Instead, he figured he'd get all the uncomfortable conversation out of the way at once.

Draco continued, "Actually, it is I who should be apologizing to you. The whole… incident, at our table, made me realize. Well, hearing what he said to Ophelia, who I care about very much, it was as if he said it to me. It made me realize on a visceral level, not just an academic one, how awful my words and behavior were to you during school. So, I wanted to apologize for calling you such terrible names and for looking down on you for your blood. I know my words now can't erase what I said, but I wanted you to know that, as best as I can, I really do understand how despicable what I said was and how hurtful it was. And I am really, truly sorry."

Hermione looked both uncomfortable and pleased. She shifted her weight between her legs several times before murmuring, "Thank you." She stayed there for a moment, eyes locked with her former schoolyard bully before clearing her throat.

"Well, I suppose now we have that cleared up. Thank you again. And, err, sorry for assuming about the ferret thing… anyways, if you need anything…" She turned towards the door.

"Thanks for listening, and for caring enough to apologize. I'll let you know. I may call on your help for a joint jinx-ing endeavor on Mr. Greengrass. I shudder to think what sort of mayhem we could inflict with our powers combined."

Hermione shot him a thrilled, wicked smile and swept out the door with a bounce in her step. Draco found himself smiling after her. He swore he could feel newfound lightness in his soul.

* * *

Draco didn't think much more of Granger until Friday, when her underlings were going to present their progress on the classification system to the pair of them. He'd been busy with work and with flying, enjoying both more than he had in months at least. Absolution was apparently a heady drug.

Friday morning, Draco dragged himself down to her well-lit, cheery floor and into Conference Room P. He wondered idly if they really had 15 other conference rooms prior to P. They'd been in J the last time they'd met, but he'd never seen any others. Maybe it was one room and they labelled the different configurations? Before he turned into the MLE wing, he quickly backtracked for some coffee, and after some hesitation, bought a cup for Granger as well. He'd done the most terrifying thing and apologized from the bottom of his heart; this was much less risky.

When he arrived, Granger was already seated at the end of the conference table, watching three younger witches and wizards shuffling papers and conducting what looked like last minute revisions over their prepared statements. A fourth was drawing a chart of the whiteboard (this room's walls were pink, so Draco's comment on the inappropriate name still stood). Draco silently handed Granger the paper cup. She grinned at him and motioned for him to sit next to her. She pulled out a piece of parchment and scrawled something on it before passing it to him.

_I think they either respect you more or are more scared of you than they are me. They are never this stressed when it's just me! _

He smirked as she sipped her coffee, consciously not looking at him as he penned a response.

_Well, I am terrifying. Did I ever tell you about how my other form is a terrible, wicked, utterly horrifying ferret? _

Hermione snorted when she read his response.

_Wow, who knew you had a sense of humor? I'm shocked! _she replied.

_I'm wounded. _

He had just slid the paper back to her when the clock chimed 9 and the group at the front scrambled to attention. Granger laughed. "Relax all. Mr. Malfoy doesn't bite, and you all know that I don't. You've all done an excellent job. We're just here so we can learn what you've done and potentially suggest a few last tweaks before we roll this out. Breathe." All four nodded enthusiastically at her words; Draco figured they'd jump off a cliff if she told them to. He was a bit surprised by her relaxed managerial style; she'd seemed rather more uptight at school. He supposed if he'd changed, she could have too.

The next two hours were spent reviewing the current progress and testing the system. They found a few minor bugs -the system stalled and refused to produce any documents if a group of countries was being consulted that had different clearance levels, for example -but overall Draco was impressed by how Granger's team had brought his idea to life. He told them so as he mentally prepared for how he'd introduce this to his own department the next week once the minor glitches were fixed.

"I can loan the team to you when you launch this with your department," Granger offered as they left the room. Draco glanced at her; she often seemed to answer exactly what he'd been thinking. He wondered if she were unusually astute or he were becoming too easy to read. He'd have to start practicing his poker face in the mirror again.

"That would be great," he replied.

* * *

Two Mondays later, Hermione appeared in his office, minions in tow. She handed him a coffee and wished him luck with the launch before turning for the door. "Let me know how it goes, okay?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied, before staring at his coffee-the coffee she'd given _him_-for a good while.

* * *

Later that day, well past five, Draco wrapped up his work. The launch had gone well; the classification system was easy to use and would greatly simplify determining what foreign Ministries could or couldn't be told. The only hang-ups had been a handful of older ambassadors who insisted that this system would ruin everything, because passing out information that _probably_ shouldn't have been passed along what their favorite form of international currency. Draco was tempted to sack every person who walked into his office with that complaint, but he restrained himself. He _would_ remember these conversations for their performance reviews and made a note to check that none of them were up to any other less-than-legal shenanigans. That said, they'd told him about their usage of potentially secret information, so they were probably all mostly toeing the line.

He started towards the Floo to head home when he decided to stop by Granger's office instead to let her know how the day went, as he'd tersely agreed when she'd delivered coffee. He had rapped on her door before he realized there was a good chance she'd already left. A faint "come in" quickly disabused him of that notion.

"Malfoy!" She sounded relatively pleased to see him. "How did it go?"

"Well. They've all got the hang of the new filing system and how to pull requests from foreign Ministries. I did have a number of complaints from folks who apparently think that divulging Ministry secrets is necessary and codifying this will hobble their efforts, but other than that, really went without a hitch. The real test will be the next couple of weeks and whether or not we hit any unforeseen snags." Granger nodded sympathetically. She opened her mouth to respond when her stomach made a loud rumbling sounds. She closed it and restarted, "New idea. Let's grab a working dinner and finish up the paperwork to finalize the project and come up with a plan for how we monitor its efficacy." She smiled at him as he nodded.

A few minutes later, several brown binders full of color-coded parchment in their arms, the pair left her office.

* * *

Three weeks later, Draco sat at his desk, staring at the note in front of him.

It was the commendation for Innovation in the Ministry award he had predicted his project with the Gryffindor Princess would land them. They'd receive a shiny plaque or medal or silly bauble to treasure… Draco crumpled the note in his hand and leaned back in his chair.

He _loved _getting awards. Why did this one feel so awful?

Maybe he was going through caffeine-withdrawal. Hermione had shown him some biomedical studies on it that were frankly quite fascinating the last time they'd met up to tweak their interoffice project and review performance.

He paused just as he was about to push the lift button and pressed the floor for MLE instead. He had better check that Hermione had gotten a her commendation notice as well. And congratulate her, as it was her team that had done all the work. Even if it was his idea…

A few moments later, he had traced the familiar path to her airy office and was knocking on her door. Her warm smile upon seeing him standing there thawed something in his chest and caused him to wave the half-crumpled notice at her like a schoolboy.

She laughed and scribbled something on a piece of parchment before Accio-ing her coat.

"So we're celebrating our Innovative Efforts? Excellent. I've had half my afternoon being whinged at by other departments about why _we _don't collaborate… Merlin!"

"Did you tell them how much your department charges for that collaboration? My budgets were all sorts of massacred after that!"

She cackled, and Draco smiled in response.

"Coffee?" he suggested hopefully.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course. Now that you know about withdrawal you're insufferable!"

The walk to the cafe outside the ministry passed in the blink of an eye.

A few quips and jokes later, they were seated at "their" table (by the back with extra table space for papers and writing and books).

"To the end of a fruitful collaboration that brought great laud and commendation to its executors!" Hermione intoned, carefully lifting her porcelain mug across the table.

Draco's heart plummeted, and the pieces of the day clicked together. The commendation did somehow mark the end of their little project, and the morose, grumpy feeling he'd had upon receiving it was grief at losing… this. These impromptu coffees, these comfortable inside jokes…

"Or not?" she huffed, slowly lowering her cup.

Draco recovered quickly, adopted his patented puppy-dog eyes and pouted, "I'm still upset I have to share credit for _my_ idea with you MLE folks!"

Her bark of laughter and half-hearted swat at his arm was enough to lift his spirits.

A tiny voice in the back of his head whispered _uh oh._


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: And this is it! I hope you all enjoyed this little fic. Reviews are greatly appreciated and will hopefully make anything else you read by me better! Next Dramione story will be about tracking down a curse on House Elves, so stay tuned. **

**Laureenkatebautista: Yes, Draco is rather abused in this story... poor ferret ;)**

**Khloe: You're welcome! Thanks for reviewing! I'm glad you're enjoying the story!**

**M: Yes, I've always seen Draco as a very "heart on his sleeve" sort of fellow; I think he showed his emotions really strongly in the books and clearly thinks family is important, so I think he'd be really invested in relationships too!**

Later that week, Draco couldn't deny that he was moping. Brooding at least involved the pretense of pacing; he had, instead, invested in large amounts of some Muggle drugs Hermione had introduced him to called Ben & Jerries. She kept insisting they weren't illegal, but he had since learned she has brewed Polyjuice potion in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom their second year, so really, who would trust her on that front.

_You could ask her on a date. _A voice (Ben probably) whispered.

_She's definitely out of your league! _Another snapped back. He assumed this was Jerry. Definitely illicit drugs.

Draco found himself agreeing with that second voice. She was a war heroine, kind, witty, charming… her smile drew him in and made him want to do anything, say anything for her to keep smiling. Her laugh… it was infectious, especially that cackle. She was smart-not just book smart, but clever and resourceful. He knew all this about her after only _really_ knowing her for a few months. He was sure if he knew her for longer he'd only learn more about how wonderful she is.

But he thought back to his disastrous time with the Greengrasses and every time he'd called her a Mudblood and mocked her buckteeth and frizzy hair. How hard he'd fought to exterminate her friends, her family. It made bile rise in his throat.

* * *

A week later, after an intervention from the House Elves the previous night (who barred him from the refrigerator and his cherry garcia fix), he felt he had himself mostly pulled together. Or at least, he was sure he looked like it. He'd spent an extra half-hour getting ready each morning to be sure he looked as proper as possible. His coiffure and his crisp robes were his armor.

But today, today he felt pretty good. He knew he didn't deserve Hermione and he'd acknowledged he was nursing a fairly serious crush, but, he reasoned, his heart would heal; he was a grown man-he was the head of a department for Merlin's sake.

He opened his office, ready to start his day-

"Hermione? Wh-that's my chair, you know."

She smirked at him, "That's reassuring. I was ever so worried you were going about, nicking other people's chairs for your office."

Draco composed himself, "Let me rephrase. Granger, why are you in my office?"

Her smirk broadened. "I was leaving you a gift!"

She gestured broadly to the wall behind him. He spun gracefully on his heel, only to be greeted by a meter high moving portrait of himself-as a ferret-being held by the Minister of Magic, his little chest puffed out with the tiny medal blinking in the bright portrait lights.

He felt a laugh bubble up inside him, "How long have you been planning this?"

"Ages!" she cried. "It was meant to be done _weeks_ ago, but the painter's muse abandoned him and blah de blah it was delayed!"

She looked so smug, and part of Draco wanted to rage at her that it wasn't fair that she was here, being so wonderful and charming when he'd just spent a whole week trying to get over her.

She was looking at him hopefully, for what? A witty rejoinder? A counter prank? He tried to think of what the _old _Draco, the naive Draco that hadn't started to fall for her would have said and his mind came up blank. So, he went on instinct-

"Do you want to go out with me tonight for dinner?"

Her smile broadened.

"I like French food and will be ready at seven," she informed him grandly before sweeping out of the room.

He stood there, grinning like he'd been hit with a Confundus and Cheering Charm simultaneously until his assistant knocked five minutes later.

* * *

He took her on a date to Nice that night and they walked along the beach afterwards; she treated him to an exclusive magic carpet tour of the Valley of the Kings the next week; he sucked up his pride and got them tickets to a Britney Spears concert the week after.

They'd eaten with her adopted brothers the week thereafter, which he insisted but was never able to prove gave him several grey hairs. She also didn't believe they'd tortured him while she went to the loo, so complete was her blind trust in her Golden Trio-mates… but she'd kissed him when he walked her to her door, so he forgave her wholeheartedly.

* * *

The ferret painting was affixed to his wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm. The contractor said it was built on a load-bearing wall, whatever that was, so they couldn't even remove the wall to cover it up.

Apparently the Minister didn't think his retribution-turning everything Hermione touched into ferrets for a morning-was particularly witty when the first thing she did was shake his hand.

* * *

A beautiful black owl tapped imperiously at the matchmaker's window. She huffed out of her chair and grabbed the note, absent-mindedly passing the bird a treat as she flicked her wand to open the thick parchment envelope.

_Dear Mistress Tynder,_

_You were completely correct that Miss Granger is beautiful, poised, witty, crafty, and utterly wonderful. I could not imagine a more inspiring, amazing woman. You were also correct that she is completely out of my league. Fortunately, she wants me anyways._

_You have my utmost gratitude for pulling my head out of my derriere, metaphorically speaking of course. You have a space at our wedding in June if you'd like to come._

_In Your Debt,_

_Draco Malfoy_

The matchmaker smiled and shook her head. She penned a quick note of her own:

_Cissy,_

_I told you throwing down the gauntlet, as it were, would work! I look forward to my winnings; I'll send the dress you'll be wearing to the next Ministry Gala next week. Red is such a lovely color, don't you think? I hope you aren't allergic to feathers, as I've found the most divine gold-sequined boa… I think that your return to society events will be quite a treat!_

_I look forward to our next bet, dearest!_

_Your Friend,_

_Lulu _


End file.
